To the Throne
by chakramrain
Summary: Naomi Campbell's of a drunken father and a mad, anaemic mother, descendant of executed duke of Monmouth. Four royals attempt a toss-up of British monarchy in 1910 as Claude George's coronation nears. Elizabeth is heiress. Elizabeth Bowes-Lyon, exiled, is now Elizabeth Stonem. And so the red-haired illegitimate. The rejected mirror-image is gifted to the challenging blonde 'prince'.


Clearly, the peasants of the later age were unaware of the previous civilian glory resting among the empty faces in Monmouth. Only the beer-hogs at what was left of taverns chugged on and on about previous wonders and knights on horses that weren't always white. They talked of the jousting and lances, old geezers at elderly homes did. Nobody cared for the first and only duke and nobody spoke of blacksmithing.

In a horse-ploughed carriage sat a prince-to-be who didn't want to be, riding onwards to Cornwall. Short blonde hair was shoulder-length, almost a bleached colour, and the chin was tipped outwards in a rather haughty manner. People would have commented on the frail nature of the youthful royal, but he would have fit in with all that lack of variety within the gene pool and the probably resultant diseases running through his veins. The inbreeding was detestable and considered filthy, to the young man who looked no older than sixteen. His scowl dragged his air of cold elegance to a high, but he was a handsome young man.

The four in the traditional vehicle were taken along by a handyman and learned personnel who faithfully served the young sirs and ladies for removing him from his original plight. He showed appropriate exhilaration when asked of it by James Cook, neglected past family member. Then Claude George Bowes-Lyon stepped and hopped merrily along as the reigning king strangled himself with bronchitis in the withering lungs. The blank British awaited the announcement to shed tears of unhappiness.

"Now!" the rather excited fellow seated opposite smacked his fists together, knuckles bursting with overwhelming exuberance, "it is now that we shall plant our tired bollocks on the bloody throne!"

"No," a dark-haired individual called lightly in a thick Italian accent, "no, the ravelled will unravel in time and execution is not the aim. We will enter only to unsettle the monarchy for as long as it is necessary, to retrieve the illegitimate child and to overturn the blanched relations within the wealthy. A new reign shall begin, whether a _Campbell_ arrives to have the next abdicate or the Russians move quicker to actually begin any invasions."

The carriage of the hidden was drawn onwards by horses of dappled grey. They found themselves towards lodging and once more there was no effort in paying for the finest accommodations. The world of the hidden was halved: one portion bountifully lived off past guilt and fear and the other was dreadfully cast aside to be starved. Five lived and lived well indeed. The only child with legitimate relations to a successor who no longer breathed was not fit.

However, she became fitted. With an insouciant countenance and a sardonic but patronising smile directed at every imbecile tumbling by, Naomi Campbell, young daughter of hopeless alcoholic father and retarded, anaemic mother of questionable royal descent, was on the right dirt towards the palace where the snotty royals lay, romped every two years and burned in hell. She only needed knives to the gold locks by another uncaring female booted from title only for her flaming hatred of English history and unwillingness to wear bows in her hair. And so Elizabeth Stonem, as she had dubbed herself so, was originally to be countess or princess Bowes-Lyon. Born in 1893 as Naomi had been, she later found herself in a ditch with a dead Anthony at seven years of age with a newborn from a past orphanage stolen away to be introduced as the delayed conceiving of Elizabeth, the next-in-line. Stonem, the only once-acknowledged pure-blood, was then slave to her impostor's wails and whimpers.

Thomas Tomlinson was an African immigrant under a false name, previously a child-slave placed with the workings of royal undertakings. James Cook was an unacknowledged nephew of the Earl of Cornwall and Frederick Clair had been another illegitimate, fathering man having leapt to his death prior to possible succession as a duke.

The unfortunate souls were expecting a slight tremor as they approached Cornwall. The letters on fancy paper stamped on by red wax and inked by pretty quills had been tossed to the guards and the numerous secretaries who were most likely eunuchs. In a marbled castle the five sat in velvet-lined cushions hemmed by onyx-encrusted skeletons. As doors of the clouds' giantesses' swung inwards, eyes of black, golden-brown and a piercing, riveting blue hardened.

"An offering," a disdainful smile dissipated into blackness as a young female of shocking red hair was hurled onto the floor, her tattered clothing taking her skidding towards a potted species of ivy.

Clay split and grainy beads thrashed the young, elfish creature. The poisonous plant dug itself into sensitive skin and suffocated the girl at the throat with endless winding vines. The doors were closed and hearty laughter rang outside like rib-bones on wind-chimes.

The scratched child was white, but not as pale as Naomi Campbell, or for the better good, Nolan Campbell. Instantaneously, after a snap of the fingers, Thomas stood to wrench the girl from her despair. Her arms were torn and bleeding, but the trails of blood, first unnoticed, had started at the door.

The studied slave put his fingertips to the wounds as red curtains cloaked the girl's face. Pulling raw flesh aside he noticed the lack of scabbing, fibrin threads or any sort of white goo. Finding the pulse at the neck of a helpless female, the jugular throbbed unsteadily, choking up on the lack of oxygen.

"Haemostasis has not occurred for six hours. The wounds are on the surface. She may die in seventy-two hours without the appropriate treatment. It's most likely haemophilia."

The enraged chit lifted her head in a breathless sorrow to obtain a deep inhalation before a raspy voice muttered, "Don't touch her."

"Round face, button-nose, dark eyes, shockingly reddened hair beyond the usual pigmentation," Nolan leant back, "the lack of thrombin and the calculated age. Behold, the illegitimate child."

Frederick took to his feet with steps quicker than a light-hoofed racehorse. Thumbs to the reddening skin, he appraised the apparent unhealthy features ridden in her face.

"She is so."

"Is that as you say, then?" the red-haired female husked, "do attend the banquet tonight. The new king announces his daughter and calls her his own, though she is nothing like the blonde child they exposed in the beginning. The queen will weep and Elizabeth shall be seventeen. The illegitimate replaces her. What a show it will be, no?"

"You lie;" Elizabeth erected herself calmly, "the illegitimate is before us. Your judgment is never better than ours."

"Attend, attend. Attend to my wounds and attend the coronation. Attend as they mock you in all their glory."

An envelope sank, crusted reddish-brown, to the floor. Unsealing the thing, Frederick took into account the official seals and cursive font Cook had come to understand as the highest secretariat's proof of entry.

Towards the chandelier tinkling above Cook hummed over the piece of thickened paper. In the reflected light the indentation of the young female's face was clearer. The girl in the red hair smiled upon her own face, only her head was adorned with a silver tiara and her posture was more alike to that of a royal.

"They have another back-up; she's ten and born in 1900. However, there will be no use for it. The risen king prefers at least a pint of his blood within his appeared daughter's."

"To hell with you, girl," Frederick said, "but you will enter with us tomorrow, when the banquet begins. The trumpeting and fanfare is that which signals it tonight, no? You serve the next prince and he will put you to use as he so wishes."

At this he nodded towards the chair on the right of his central one in the great hall of blanketed glass windows.

So rare was the event that Frederick Clair gave up fair maidens of royal ancestry to James or the lower-ranked Thomas. It was more of taunting that he put the blithe blonde female to the task of frightening the new one. And then again, Nolan caught the glint of realism within Frederick's eye and perspicaciously found his desire for Elizabeth's affection in his indifference to fresh meat.

The girl's face was pockmarked with quiet horror. She would, then, have preferred anyone but the blonde male, clearly thinly sinewy and beyond intellectual, as the dark man looked forgiving and the taller leader looked unsure of his bearings even as his voice rang crisply. The last looked like a jester in the courts with a goofy grin and dislodged teeth, grimed and gritty. The young blonde was certain of his sharp words that were never minced and carelessly perfected as he graced the room with an icy eloquence.

And yet she had only heard him vocalise his thoughts, or _analysis,_ once.

"I will enjoy her," the prince did not make a motion for adjournment.

"Will you?" Frederick swiftly turned.

"I will."

A chilling thickness to the voice struck Emily Bowes-Lyon to her skull; the enjoyment seemed that it would be unnecessarily sadistic and she herself masochistic.


End file.
